


mother dearest, teach me how to bend my reflection.

by blessed_image (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Burns, Child Abuse, Cigarettes, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oops, Physical Abuse, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Sad Oikawa Tooru, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, Underage Smoking, YO ITS NOT, auditory hallucinations, btw this is from someone who does not read the manga so idc what u say mwah, but he doesnt realise that kiss kiss, but its legit like. hardly there. kinda, but this really super duper hurt to write so mwah again, fuck im so sorry, i think? thats it, just straight up im sorry, of some stuff, vent fic, yowch u kno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: Tooru’s mother is an enigma, is what his father tells him the day after he comes home- with a smile that makes him seem the happiest man alive. He knows better than to believe that.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Oikawa Tooru & Oikawa Tooru's Mother
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	mother dearest, teach me how to bend my reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ THE FUCKING TAGS BEFORE CARRYING ON WITH THIS FIC IS2G  
> also comment any other tags I should include just in case bc I really dont want to hurt someone with this.

Tooru’s mother is kind. She is a dainty, small woman- with hands that have aged prettily, with silk skin slipped tight around her bones, and pale scars painting her fingers from all the mistreatments of life. From sewing needles, or boiling pans, or the thorns held out from rose bushes like a hand from an arm. She is something soft, and free, and she is something no man on Earth would ever dream of hurting. She is power itself contained. She has a small case in her jewellery box that she never shows him, where she keeps his father’s old prison letters, and he presumes the power comes from there.

She holds his hands at night, and runs her spider-like fingers up and down and up and down the inside of his arm; pressing nicely, deeply where his wrist becomes his palm and smiles. She wears red lipstick each day, as a signature style and the people call it film star beauty. She wears her lipstick the same way she wears thinly veiled resentment on her face.

“ _Vena amoris_.” She says, pricking his own silk skin with her perfectly manicured nail. A strand of her hair falls onto her shoulder, like something from those French movies she shows him when he’s good. “ _The vein of love, Tooru._ ” He looks at her and smiles back.

They say he looks like her. He looks _everything_ like her.

Staring into the mirror, he decides that he looks nothing like his mother.

Tooru’s mother is kind and otherworldly, when her door is open and the birds sing and the calico cat she adopted off the sidewalk is sat in her lap and she whispers sweet nothings to the wind. Tooru’s mother is an enigma, is what his father tells him the day after he comes home- with a smile that makes him seem the happiest man alive. He knows better than to believe that. His father paints her that night, using the sun as a halo he pretends the angel’s gifted her. Tooru’s hands are just like his mother’s, he supposes as he stares at the portrait, like the world expected of him; delicacy in real time. Pale, pale scars that ruin his hands- long, unpainted, chipped nails sprout from the ends of his fingertips- and his scars are something ugly. 

He is nothing like his mother.

He wonders if she looked at her own mother the same way, he wonders if this is a century old ritual, if this is just how the world works. He wonders if all boys his age are holding their waist in the mirror, grinning if or when their fingers meet. He wonders if they, too, have scars on their hands that look like an artist’s most proud murals. He wonders if the rest of the universe, all it's little creatures, wished they were different- if they felt they were too big for their own body, or too small. He wonders if they ever wished they were different in a way that doesn't really make sense. He wonders.

Tooru’s scars range from crescent moons lining his palms like the stitches in a dress, his mother stares at them with unease, to shameful burns from all the times he hasn’t been perfect just like her, his mother stares at those with pride. She kisses the top of his head each time she sees them, a soft good night filled with something sick that Tooru can’t quite understand.

" _Such a pretty boy_ ", she would say and his hands would shake in hers, " _my pretty boy is everything like his mother_ ". 

His mother may be kind, and his mother may be grace personified; but she is also wrath, she is the monster that goes bump in the night, she is her rose garden filled with thorns. He prays that he is _nothing_ like her. He knows he is _everything_ like her.

His mother dies when he is 15, but his hands still shake.

" _You’re mother loved you_ ", his father cries into a glass of whiskey. Tooru doesn’t even try to hide the joy on his face at the use of past tense. He inherited his mother’s dimples, too, and he spends hours trying to cover them up. Instead, he learns how to pull a convincing fake smile and guesses that’ll come in handy one day instead. 

The funeral is beautiful, in an ivy covered church not too far away, and his hand itches when sees the headstone that has been carved into the shape of an angel. People call him pretty, with their own fake smiles- they say he’s just like a mirror’s reflection of a dead woman, they say it’s just like she crawled out of her casket to shake their hands. He feels sick. The burns itch, when he finds himself missing her, and he scratches at them until the skin is red and raw. 

He scratches at them each night before bed. Without fail. Each morning after, he looks into the mirror his father never bothered hanging on his wall for him, and stares into his mother’s eyes. Without fail. 

" _The mirror has eyes_ "; he desperately tells his drunken father one day, " _the mirror has her eyes_ ". The man yells at him, and breaks a few of the empty bottles that have built up on the dining table; like an ivory tower that cannot be bulldozed as it steals from the less fortunate. 

He lies to Iwaizumi that same morning when he asks about the cut on the top of his hand, in between the knuckles of his second and third fingers- the one that just won’t stop bleeding. If the boy frowns at the state of Tooru’s skin, how the blotchiness suddenly stops in a clean line where his wrists start and hands end, he doesn’t say anything. 

It’s when he’s 17, however, when the mirror begins talking. He’s repeating his mother’s words about vena amoris as if they were a hymn, staring at the mountain of lighters stacked in a box under his desk, when something sick twists in his reflection. Nothing changes when he glares at it from the corner of his eye, so he just takes a cigarette to his mouth instead. Fire builds a home like it does every other time, and he watches as the flames lap sweetly over the porous paper.

_Why would you do this to us, Tooru?_ The voice stings- it’s loud, screaming, and he feels nauseous at the sudden stuffiness in the room. _How can you destroy what I left for you?_ This is a familiar sound. He puts out the cigarette on the tip of his left hand’s middle finger in stressed annoyance, and goes to sleep.

Iwaizumi asks the next day, Tooru throws a ball at his head.

Iwaizumi loves him, Tooru can see it in his eyes- an untouchable, soft thing that follows him in both the school halls and the volleyball court. A sweet thing that makes his eyes darken a shade. Tooru doesn’t know what to think about it, because Iwaizumi _loves_ him. And, _God_ , does he love him back so, _so_ much. Too much, maybe. Yet, Tooru also loves his mother, and the pain that comes with overworking his bad knee, and the rush he gets from staying awake for four days straight. Tooru loves many things he knows he really shouldn’t, and he is unsure if loving Iwaizumi is good for him. He supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

That night, the mirror reminds him that he doesn’t love his mother anymore, and no love is endless, or selfless. Tooru calls it a bitch, and doesn’t sleep.

Iwaizumi calls him sometime the next day after Tooru skips school, so he rips the battery out of his phone. The mirror laughs.

“Shut the fuck up.” He says into his knees. “Just shut the fuck up.”

_He’s worried about you_ , Oikawa Komori’s voice has become static and he wonders if his voice will sound like that one day, too. 

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He lies, and the mirror hums back a small tune.

_And you believe that?_ He throws a pillow at it. _After everything?_

“Yes.” He seethes and throws another pillow, but the heat of anger is gone with the breeze as doubt seeps into his pores. 

_Oh, I’m sure, dear_ ; the mirror throws right back at him.

He’s also small; in a way that he guesses isn’t really natural- because this type of small is not what he inherited from his mother. This small is from the days and months and years of using energy drinks and cold brew coffee to stay awake, from the days and months and years of throwing food out because he has useless memories of his mother eating whatever it was he picked up. He doesn’t want anything to do with her. The story ends there.

Monday comes three sleepless days later, with scattered cans and an open window, and Iwaizumi punches his shoulder a little less harshly than normal. He declares that he was worried, and his mind nags him that he’s lying, so Tooru stares at him for a few seconds before forcing a laugh. The mirror was right. Iwaizumi comments on the fashionable bags under his eyes, and the way he smells like an ashtray, so Tooru tells him it’s a new big trend, and his dad has a bad habit.

The look he receives is nothing short of _wrong_. 

That night, when the mirror curses him for being _a fucking idiot, Tooru, you’re a fucking idiot and I told you so_ \- he covers it in all the clothes he doesn’t wear anymore, and punches it until his skin rips. Payback. Revenge. Blood is hard to get out of clothes, he had learnt a few years ago, so he leaves it. He wakes up to the smell of iron and regret, pushes the battery back into his phone with a distant feeling; almost like the world is at a standstill, he ignores it and texts his best friend.

**Me** : wont be in 2day either, see u whnevr   
**big meanie** : wtf why

He also ignores the several notifications that leave a ring echoing in the emptiness of his room, ripping the battery back out and taking a nap- weightless, and a sick part of him reminds him that this is exactly what he wanted, what he deserves. The world to forget him, and who he is, because he is just too much like a woman who was okay with spiders dancing in her hair. He throws some more punches at the mirror as a good precaution.

A knock at the door is what he wakes up to, and he would worry more about the groaning coming from his father’s room if it weren’t for the distinct sound of Iwaizumi’s shouting outside. He checks the time, and curses when he realises the boy would’ve ran here straight from school. He throws on a random hoodie, nowhere near the broken mirror, and practically flies down the stairs in a rush.

“What?” he grits out, throwing the door open, and Iwaizumi scoffs at him. 

“Just what the fuck is up with you lately?” he glares, and Tooru would feel bad if it weren’t for the fact that his first rest in days had been interrupted by this asshole. His dad yells from somewhere upstairs.

“Fucking-“ he pinches the bridge of his nose as Hajime shuffles his feet. In and out, and in, and out. “Nothing. Go away, I’m tired and I feel like shit-“

“Look like it, too.” He interrupts; staring straight ahead at him and Oikawa can’t help but laugh at the tuft of hair that is out of place on his forehead- presumably from running. 

“Look, just, please-“ He looks up at Hajime. “Go.” He shakes his head back.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Tooru contemplates the deal, wondering if he will just leave him alone forever if he explains the situation. He’s gonna sound crazy, and that might just be what he wants to get away from unwelcome eyes and open ears. He nods, grabbing another three energy drinks off the nearest counter before stepping out and slamming the door behind him. His dad can scream at him later. He passes one of the cans to Hajime, stuffs another in the pocket of his hoodie and cracks open the last to drink half of it in one gulp. 

“Ask away, Iwa-chan.” He smiles sweetly, despite the wide eyed look he’s garnered. He finishes the can with a playful grin, places it on the ground and stares at it rather oddly for a moment.

“Just….” Iwaizumi starts, trailing off as Oikawa crushes the metal beneath the weight of his foot. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, even when he sits down on the brick fencing just in front of his house. “Tell me what’s wrong, Oikawa.”

“I hate that name.” He looks up at Hajime and hears the question before he says it aloud. Tooru shakes his head in dismissal. “Reminds me of someone, is all.” He says sadly.

They’re silent again for a while, whilst Iwaizumi sits next to him and grips his hand tightly in his own- waiting for Oikawa to say something on his own accord, instead of someone else’s. He never told this boy about his past, just that his dad doesn’t work because of his record and the breadwinner died a few years ago. He guesses that the reason Iwaizumi gives a shit and somehow loves Oikawa, whether he realises it or not, is because he doesn’t actually know anything about him. He’s known him since they were kids, but he never really knew anything real about him- just that he was loud, and had an immeasurable ambition. Oikawa lifts their hands and presses his lips briefly to Iwaizumi’s skin, rougher than his own. He smiles against it.

“I think I’ve gone crazy.” He whispers. Iwaizumi stills, before kicking his ankle in a quiet protest. He shakes his head and looks back up at him. “No, I mean like full-blown crazy. As in I’m talking to my reflection, who sounds like my mother, and I can’t sleep and I’ve started smoking again and my dad’s just a big fucking asshole who I wished would just shut the fuck up already and-“

Hajime stops him by squeezing his hand encouragingly, but his eyes are blown wider than he thought possible, and Oikawa feels a little sick at the contrast. He turns over Iwa’s arm and teases the thin flesh there for a moment, pressing down softer than his mother ever did, where his wrist becomes his palm. 

_Nothing like his mother._

“Vena amoris, Iwa-chan.” He starts, rubbing clockwise with his thumb. Hajime’s forehead creases in confusion. “That’s what my mother called it, before she died.” 

“You said you started smoking again.” The boy asks, and Tooru hums. “Since when did you _ever_ smoke?” He ignores the real question and the concern laced in each syllable. He keeps rubbing.

“She would do this each night, and act like I would die if I didn’t know this specific vein existed.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “I guess, because she knew it existed, and if I wasn’t her then I was nobody.” It’s a bitter memory, something that would’ve aged like wine if it weren’t for the mould and rot tainting it. His broken nail clips at the skin beneath. He looks at his friend, who grimaces, again.

“She would tell me the name, what it meant, what it was, why she cared so much about it.” He removes his hand, but keeps staring at Hajime’s with hooded eyes. His lips curve upwards, twisted. “Before she would pin a needle into the skin there, or put out her own cigarette on the ends of one of my fingertips, or pour boiling water into the middle of my palm.” The words hang thick in the air for a moment, and Oikawa sighs at the memories he wishes he didn’t treasure. There’s a gasp and Tooru has to fan at his face for a second to dry the wetness in his eyes. _Her_ eyes. The mirror’s laugh can be heard somewhere in the distance. He breathes in harshly, and coughs.

“Before she made me take out all the thorns on the rose bushes with my bare hands so the cat wouldn’t get hurt.” He tilts his head slightly to the side, pursing his lips. “Before she told me how perfect I was for being a mini her, how I was nothing if I wasn’t Oikawa Komori’s second coming.” He finishes quietly, reaching up with his free hand to scratch at his neck.

“Hey, okay-“ Iwaizumi grabs his wrist and pulls it away, fingers nothing like spider legs as they wrap around him. He knows this wrist is bony, so it’s not a surprise when the boy’s fingers overlap eachother. He tries rubbing at his eyes with his other hand, but is stopped again. “Oik- Tooru, stop.”

They look at eachother for a long, tranquil moment and Oikawa contemplates his options. Sometimes, when he looks into Iwaizumi’s eyes and sees himself, he wishes he had enough guts to say something. But, for now, he guesses it’s okay if he loves his best friend soundlessly. _In another life_ , the universe whispers, _in another life he could be yours already_. He tells the universe to _fuck off, already_.

“You’re okay, now.” Hajime tells him, and Tooru doesn’t really believe it. “You’re okay.” The boy says with so much conviction that it makes him want to cry again. 

_You…are everything like your mother._

_You are nothing like your mother._

**Author's Note:**

> this is dedicated to the years I also spent in front of a mirror, to the time I lost worrying.  
> I never have experienced any form of abuse to this extent, but some other elements of this fic have indeed come from personal experience, and I just really needed to vent my anger at the shit I dealt with as a kid. nyways….bye lol hope u liked it


End file.
